Ollivander
by Mr. Snow
Summary: Great things await, when man and monster meet; never the twain shall see and emerge unscathed.


The italicized sentence is a direct quote from _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone_. There are other fragments sprinkled throughout. And of course, I merely dabble in JKR's sandbox, though I do rather ignore some things.

* * *

The wizard opened the door to the light tinkling of a bell and stepped curtly across the threshold into the dimly-lit room beyond, flanked by two of his loyal company. A low table nestled amidst shelves of long boxes met him as the door snapped shut behind his companions.

Silence greeted them as they gazed through the darkness.

He lifted his wand, a murmured _lumos_ on his lips, when a quiet voice cut quick through the still:

"I was wondering when I'd see you here, Mr. Riddle."

The wizard whirled about; his companions leapt to the sides, brandishing their wands at the shadows shrouding the portal through which they had just passed. _An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop._

The wizard, now identified as one Tom Riddle—known to most as Voldemort—bit down a sneer as a cold smile spread across his face.

"Mr. Ollivander." His voice slid across the room. "It is…agreeable to find you still amongst the living."

Voldemort's quarry cocked his head, white hair cascading over his shoulder, and his eyes pierced raucously into the interrogator. He said nothing in reply.

"It seems that I have need of a wandmaker, Mr. Ollivander. Do kindly join my associates; I daresay we have some questions for you."

Bellatrix Lestrange and Peter Pettigrew relaxed their wands slightly. Lestrange, a maniacal grin plastered to her features, advanced on Ollivander. "Fancy careful, there, oldie! Let ickle Bella care for you now. Oh! And so much fun we'll have. My master has questions for you, he does." She rambled louder with each step, head lolling from side to side. "Do be good and come answer."

Suddenly, she crashed head over heels into the shelf behind her, skin tearing away as she withered into a cloud of ash. Pettigrew gaped at her, visibly steeled himself, and turned to face Ollivander. The old man had not moved. Ollivander quirked his head at Pettigrew, who had time only to squeak before vanishing in a cloud of misplaced dust.

"Twelve-and-three-quarter inches, walnut, dragon heartstring. Nine-and-one-quarter inches, chestnut, dragon heartstring. What a pity they are no longer with us today," Ollivander murmured.

Voldemort swallowed. Whipping his wand forward, he snarled, " _crucio_!" A wave of light burst forth from the wand and splashed across Ollivander's chest.

The wandmaker tensed briefly, then relaxed, completely neutral. Voldemort froze.

"Curious," he said, pacing forward at last. "I recall every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Riddle. Every wand I've ever made. Thirteen-and-a-half inches, yew, with a phoenix tail core. That was yours—the one that I sold to a jittery half-blood at eleven."

He paused. "But that's not what you wield now. Strange that you should bring before me the one wand that should do me ever more than it should for you."

For the first time in nearly fifty years, Voldemort was beside himself. "What trickery is this, old man?! Explain yourself! Why do you not writhe like the worm you are?"

"No wand can truly harm its maker, Mr. Riddle. A trick as old as the craft itself. No wand I have ever crafted has the will to truly destroy me. Harm, yes. Injure? Minorly. Had you channeled your wrath through any but that wand, I might have bowed to your will." A wan smile split the aged face. "But that wand…that wand is special."

He deftly plucked the rod from Voldemort's spindly fingers, twisting the wand with a gentle, longing stare. Voldemort himself stared on, his questions silenced by the wandmaker's confident motion.

"The wand is a true masterpiece. Whether by design or cosmic accident, the marriage of wood, creature, and man—yes, Mr. Riddle, you are every bit a part of your wand as the wand is of itself—creates more than the sum of its parts. Quite a bit more, at that; at the hand of its wielder, a wand can be said to itself live.

"But this wand—it is a blight. Created not for life but to destroy that of its master, I bound myself of its core; my malice, my hunger. This wand takes life—it itself can never be alive—and therefore nor can its master."

He scoffed, eyes snapping back to Voldemort, who found himself wilting under the silvery gaze.

"I was so angry that day, the day I made my first wand. I upset the balance. And they realized it, did those three brothers. They chained me to this craft; the premises, even, as I could not wander far nor long without myself. Leaving, even shortly, was of the greatest burden."

He looked away. "Long have these fifteen inches of elder tethered me here, my tasks incomplete."

Voldemort saw his opening. "Join me, then. I see your power. Hide this horcrux and we shall rule this world as two immortals."

Ollivander was silent a moment or two. When he spoke, it was not with his prior mellow tone, but with a rasp that spoke of eons apart. "You dare to compare this to your repositories?"

He lashed out an open hand, and before them suddenly floated a cup, a locket, a diadem, a snake, and a strip of scar tissue in the shape of a lightning bolt.

The gaze narrowed. "You dare compare your soul with the essence of Death Itself?"

He clenched his fist, and the five items—and the man before him—were consumed; wreathed in black fire, the remnants of Tom Riddle rid themselves of earthly constraints to the maw of eternity.

Ollivander straightened himself, turned, and pushed on the door. For the first time, he felt no resistance as he stepped through the disintegrating wards of the Peverell brothers.

He sighed, and the man known as Garrick Ollivander—the being Death Itself—strode forth freely into the world. Complete, for the first time in eons, a smile etched his features.

He had so much to do.


End file.
